We All Fall Down
by blackestfaery
Summary: ONESHOT. Hermione had always been drawn to the odd, the strange, and the rejects. This apparently applies to both plants and people. Written for Hawthorn & Vine's Reverse Challenge 2010 and inspired by riptey's comic, How To Pick Them. Draco/Hermione.


Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

Initially written for Hawthorn & Vine's Reverse Challenge 2010. I was assigned and inspired by riptey's dark and emotive mini-comic, How to Pick Them. See my profile for a link to the comic. Much love to muse_misery for the fantastic beta.

**We All Fall Down**

* * *

1

When Hermione was five years old, her two favourite flowers were dandelions and bishop's lace.

While the other children rushed off to pick summer snowflakes by the handful, she would go straight for the puffy dandelions. She'd pluck the stems carefully until her left hand was hidden behind a sagging bunch of yellow petals, tucking what she could in her belt before marching off in search of the bishop's lace. They were never hard to find; they were always left behind when the other children were done laying waste to the park fields.

Out of the two, she rather liked the bishop's lace best. With its small, pale flowers and spiky sepal, it always stood out from the rest.

Separate from the other children and ignoring their laughing and pointing, Hermione would sit and weave her flowers in twisting chains. She wove until her fingers were sticky with plant juice and her chain was long enough to loop several times around her neck.

No one else's wreathes ever looked like hers. They were different, and that's what she liked best.

2

It was just days before her sixth birthday when her mum made the first chink in her childhood memories. Mrs. Granger had asked what she'd wanted for her birthday. Without hesitation, Hermione had requested a book on gardening and a window box to grow her dandelions and bishop's lace.

She remembered the struggle on her mother's face: a blink, a wince, and then a slight tilt of her head before Mrs. Granger sighed.

"Hermione, darling … they're _weeds_."

Hermione had only blinked, comprehension and devastation tearing through her sternum as she swayed on her feet, speechless.

Weeds? ...Those pesky little things that her mother waged weekly wars with in the summer?

_Weeds. _

Her beautiful plants were unwanted? Hermione had turned the idea over in her head as her mom watched. Eventually, she'd drawn an even breath and lifted her chin.

"It doesn't matter to me that they're weeds," she declared, before softening her voice. This was her mother, after all.

"It's what I want … please."

3

"_Hermione, darling … they're weeds."_

Twelve years had passed since then, but Hermione never forgot that day. Nor had her fascination with her weeds lessened any. She'd since graduated from wreathe making to pressing the plants between the pages of a book; she'd even discovered a spell to protect the pages from the crush of the yellow dandelion.

Harry and Ron had laughed at her odd behaviour—_Luna-like_, she'd once overheard—but as she grew older, she realised this only made her like her weeds even more.

Perhaps it was this—this strange pull to the unwanted—that drew her eyes again and again to the back of his pale head. The only difference was that this time, she didn't want to make wreaths and crowns for herself. She wanted to pluck those light hairs out, one by one, until he turned around and told her to keep her dirty little Mudblood hands off. Until he became that snake she knew he had to still be.

And then she would be free to scream in the middle of their Order meetings. To stand up and point her wand between his eyes and say exactly what she thought of his "_defection._"; is that what they called covering your arse these days?

_You're not fooling anyone. _

_You don't belong here._

_How does it feel to be the unwanted one now?_

But she never plucked a single hair, and instead only stared until her eyes were dry and his shoulders became stiffer than they already were. Draco Malfoy may have been the outcast, but he was a Malfoy by birth and he was nothing if not proud.

4

She'd laughed when he was given a Muggle residence in London to hide his cowardly face. No magic unless it was for self defence and, "_for Merlin's sake, do something with that hair of yours_. _You're like a walking target."_

For all intents and purposes, he was an 18 year old Muggle student living off of microwave dinners and the occasional burnt attempt at a home-cooked meal.

She hadn't expected a reaction—he'd never shown a sign of acknowledging her little digs before—so it was with a measure of surprise when he'd turned his head toward her. He'd given her a cool look down that straight nose of his before turning away and nodding to the Auror.

"Show me," he'd said. Calm, like he'd planned it all along.

He didn't look at her again when he and the Auror left the room.

5

Hermione had stopped laughing a week later when she was assigned delivery duty. She'd stared at the plastic bag filled with tins and a few fresh fruits and vegetables. A part of her wanted to be insulted.

_Delivery duty._ _I'm here to fight a war and you give me _delivery duty_?_

Reject job though it was, it still had to be done. Within the hour, Hermione had found herself walking down a darkly paneled hallway lined with carpet that had seen better days. The circular lamps above her head seemed better suited for the access tunnels that ran deep under the city. She supposed they weren't there to do much more than give meagre light to each doorway ..._ still_...

A light flickered, giving up a buzz and a pop, and Hermione had quickened her steps.

She'd never liked being on this side of the door. The domed peephole made her feel like some insect on display, and, knowing Malfoy, he'd probably notice how the concave glass made her forehead look twice as large. An old memory from fourth year slanted across her vision, and she'd eased a step back and crossed her arms, chin tucking down. She wasn't going to open her mouth until he opened the door.

Malfoy answered on the third knock, (though she'd suspected he'd been there since the first rap of her knuckles) saving her from any further over-analyzing.

His head, then shoulders appeared, his right forearm bracing him against the doorframe. For someone who looked like he hadn't had a decent sleep in weeks, he'd wasted no time in running his eyes over her.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

He apparently didn't get the whole _you've got no reason to be a prat now _part of switching sides and playing nice_._ It was probably just in his blood. Hermione had even half convinced herself to be civil on the way up to his apartment, but it was obvious he'd been spoiling for a fight. And lucky for him, so was she.

They'd ended up nearly toe to toe, wand hands twitching, and voices echoing down the hall. They would have drawn their wands if not for the angry neighbour in 510 sticking his head out and telling them to "_shut the fuck up, I'm trying to sleep here."_

Chastened, she'd shoved his food into his chest before stomping down the hall. Tough luck no one else wanted to be delivery girl. She was going to get reassigned and if everything worked out, Malfoy would starve in his little ferret hole.

6

The request for reassignment was either never received or misinterpreted by the higher ups, because Hermione unwillingly kept delivery duty and was assigned intelligence, reconnaissance, and research to boot. She knew it wasn't his fault, but Malfoy was an easy outlet to vent her rage.

Their sixth face-off ended with his groceries crushed against his chest as usual, with the new addition of her holding up the wall beside his door. His voice was a low growl against her ear as his hands clamped tight on her shoulders.

"Remember that when you're here, Granger, the rules apply to you as well. No wands for either of us, and I've learned that my neighbours don't give a damn for what goes on so long as it's behind a closed door."

He'd broken off once he felt the press of her wand against his left side, just under his ribs. Hermione gasped against his collarbone, hating how he blocked all the light when he stood so close. She jabbed his side again when he didn't move.

"I'm pretty sure this counts as self-defence, Malfoy."

Draco was slow with stepping back, fingers straightening one by one and dragging halfway down her arms before they'd dropped away. He was against the wall across from her before Hermione had felt safe enough to move. She didn't bother to hide her wand as she'd run down the hallway.

7

On her eleventh delivery and subsequent fight, 510 opened his door again. Groaning with frustration, he'd stepped all the way out into the hall and watched them lash out at each other for a full minute.

Hermione was sure there was a dent against the wall in her shape from the way Malfoy pressed her against it. This, too, had become a regular part in their arguments.

"How many times," 510's aggravated voice interrupted them once again, but only Hermione turned to look his way, "do I have to tell you two to _shut up_?"

He waved his hand toward Malfoy's wide open door. "Just get it over with and fuck already."

He'd slammed his door behind him before realizing he'd finally gotten his wish for silence.

8

Their eighteenth hallway fight got them just past his door before Hermione realised who, exactly, had his hand shoved up her jumper. She pulled her head back to—_breathe and push him far, far away_—untangle the plastic bag from around her wrist. There was a distant sound of eggs breaking as she ploughed the fingers of her now free hand through his hair, teeth clicking against his as he pressed forward at the same time.

She allowed herself a guilty minute to memorize this moment: the solid anchor of his arm around the small of her back, the fit of her hand spread against the side of his face, and most especially the soft groan he—she?—breathed out when he pulled away.

He was staring at her lips when he spoke; the sound went right through her. "You have exactly ten seconds to get out before I close the door."

Hermione had spent half of those seconds staring at him, at what shifted behind his darkened grey gaze. He reached for her again when the light from the hallway shone against the mark stretched across his arm like a banner. Panic closed in and Hermione abruptly pulled back. Draco's arm dropped along with the shutters in his eyes.

_What had she done?_

"You're right," she stammered, reaching blindly for the doorknob behind her. "I-I'd…I'd better…I'm going."

9

Their next five deliveries were conducted in utter silence. Hermione could have screamed at how loud the crinkle of the plastic bag was as it bumped against her knees. Fifth floor, left after the crooked watercolour in the hall, all the way to the end, knock on door, door opens, unmarked arm comes out, hand over food, door closes. Done and over with, just like it should be. Wham bam, thank you, ma'am but without the—

She turned away from the space of wall beside his door and moved back down the hall.

10

Hermione had already pulled out the chairs and checked the cabinets before peering into the refrigerator a second time. A small frown wrinkled her brow until she'd spotted the Auror who had assigned Draco his new home and her her status as delivery girl. Haagen-Dazs, if she remembered correctly. But then again, it could've been her stomach talking. He had obviously just come from outside, his robes leaving a wet trail in his wake.

"Where's Malfoy's food? It's delivery day," she'd asked, hooking a thumb behind her at the refrigerator.

Dazs shook his head. "It's done already. You're off that now." He handed her a sealed note, already turning away. "New orders."

11

The new orders took her out for days and sometimes weeks at a time. Hermione couldn't say that it wasn't a welcomed change. She'd come to memorize the number of steps it took to get to Malfoy's door and the way his eyes would darken when she mentioned his father.

It was wrong; she could admit that much to herself.

The book she had been reading for the past hour slipped to her lap, and Hermione closed her eyes. Her attention was shot. Perhaps a nap was in order.

When she peeled her eyes open again, her gaze landed on the flattened bishop's lace she used as a bookmark. She picked it up by the stem and twirled the weed between her thumb and index finger, stare wandering to the parchment beyond. New orders. Dazs had given it to her that morning.

She was going home.

12

Hermione, missing the weight of the plastic bag in her hand and in its absence, shoved her clammy hands in her coat pockets. Fifth floor, left at the crooked watercolour, and all the way to the end of the hall. She just had to knock ... any day now.

The air seemed thick between her knuckles and the door and the strong, assertive rap she'd tried for sounded hollow, barely carrying past where she stood. She never heard his footsteps, but Hermione knew the moment he arrived on the other side of the door. A rush of anticipation tightened her scalp and warmth pushed at her cheeks as she crossed her arms.

The door opened before she could think about what that exactly meant. They stared at each other for what felt like hours, and Hermione wished again for her plastic bag shield.

Draco had clearly just rolled out of bed; the simple T-shirt and sweats he wore were rumpled from lying down. Despite this, his eyes were sharp, if a little guarded, as he let his gaze wander over her. She swallowed the quickly forming lump in her throat and tried not to fidget under his scrutiny. When he finally spoke, it was with careful intonation.

"Why did you come back?"

That was a good question. Why _was_ she here? She was no longer the delivery girl and it wasn't as if they had the best of working relationships before that; far from it. But if she was honest enough, it was the unknown that had drawn her here tonight. The fact that despite his nasty upbringing and their less than stellar past together, there was still something about Draco Malfoy that just got to her. With his fair _everything_ and prickly attitude...

If she didn't know better, she would say that he was the embodiment of her bishop's lace. Pale and unwanted.

Her favourite weed.

But what to say when it wasn't love and maybe not even liking, yet, but much more than a passing fascination? It wasn't that she felt sorry for him. They were alike enough for her to know he would scorn her for her pity.

Maybe he made her feel special, in an odd sort of completely twisted way. Because without the reason of weekly food drop offs, she was still here; the only one picking him, just like her dandelions and bishop's lace. And, if she wasn't mistaken, the mere fact that he was still standing there waiting for an answer spoke much of his state of mind on this—their ... _thing_.

So why did she come back? In the end, Hermione answered truthfully.

"I don't know."

But she knew she wanted to find out.


End file.
